


October 2016

by babybrotherdean



Series: 365 Challenge: 2016 [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2019-07-28 01:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 11,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16231019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: Collection of 365 ficlets for the month of October.





	1. Two-Hundred Seventy-Six: Beg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Anyone ever tell you how good you look when you beg?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean/Meg because. Reasons?
> 
> Day 275 was uploaded separately as [Playing Dress-Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8177660). It's been added to this series, too.

“Anyone ever tell you how good you look when you beg?”

They’re in the “after” now, the part where they actually talk. Where they’re more themselves than they can every really be in the heat of the moment. Dean’s got his eyes closed and his cheek resting on a soft, bare thigh. Delicate fingers work through his hair and he thinks about not responding. He could probably fall asleep right here.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re real good at making it happen?”

Meg laughs above him, sharp and amused. Her fingernails scratch absently at Dean’s scalp and he relaxes again. “You’re not the first, baby. Probably won’t be the last, either.”

Their relationship is an odd one. A comfortable one, and one that fits every empty place in Dean’s life that needs filling right now, but… still. Odd. “Aw, can’t you at least pretend like you’ll stick around for breakfast?”

It’s an inside joke between them after dozens of lazy evenings spent like this followed by mornings spent throwing verbal barbs at one another while they each go about their own business. Meg laughs again, and Dean opens his eyes to see her grinning down at him. “Will you make me pancakes if I suck your dick again?”

Dean gives her a playful wink and presses up into her hand a little when she gives his hair a playful tug. “Maybe. If you’re nice.”

“You know I’m no good at being nice.”

“You’re nice to me, when you feel like it.”

It gives her pause, and she shrugs, going back to what really amounts to petting Dean like an oversized cat. “If you say so. I want my pancakes.”

They’re just short of committed, and a million miles from romantic. They’re strange and they make fun of each other just as often as they make fun of everyone else, and they’re just right for whatever it is they’ve stumbled into. Meg’s fingertips catch on the curve of Dean’s jaw just in time to tilt his head up for a kiss, and he smiles against her lips.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, feeling her laugh with triumph against him. “You’ll get your damn pancakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	2. Two-Hundred Seventy-Seven: Playtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hands on his arms feel impossibly tiny, and John feels a sudden, deep ache of affection for the two boys on either side of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft John being a soft dad with his soft boys.

The hands on his arms feel impossibly tiny, and John feels a sudden, deep ache of affection for the two boys on either side of him. Sammy’s smaller, tongue poking out between his lips as he gets himself situated, and Dean’s all dead-serious, brow furrowed deeply with concentration. John doesn’t even try to wipe the smile off his face as he glances between them. “Ready, boys?”

“Ready!” Dean cheers, and Sammy gives an excited little wiggle and a grin that tell him the same thing. With an extremely dramatic grunt, he braces himself, gets his legs under him, and lifts upwards, bringing both of his laughing, shrieking boys along with him.

This is their favourite game, recently. They cling to his arms while he lifts them, apparently without effort- he’s far from out of shape, and his boys are both still small- and then parades them around whichever room they might be in at the time. The living room where they are now is best, because as soon as his arms get tired…

The boys are still giggling and swinging off him, legs flailing wildly in the air as John moves to deposit them both on the couch. They drop with little “oofs,” ending up half on top of each other and still laughing even as they right themselves. John’s smiling, too, because it’s impossible not to when he sees them this happy.

“Again!” Sammy demands, waving his little arms around in the air. “Daddy, again!”

Dean leans over and abruptly flops on top of his brother, silencing the requests with a little squeak, and then they’re wrestling and it’s enough to give John a moment to catch his breath. He figures even if it wasn’t an option, he’d happily continue to the point of exhaustion, just to see his boys smile.

He’s always been scared of being a dad, but it’s moments like these- happy little memories that aren’t so distinct as they are a blur of contentment and laughter- that make it worth the fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	3. Two-Hundred Seventy-Eight: Green Thumb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs, brow furrowing slightly as he leans in close. “You gotta give me something to work with, here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted gardener!Dean. And like. The bunker definitely has a big greenhouse inside.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs, brow furrowing slightly as he leans in close. “You gotta give me something to work with, here.”

It’s delicate work, and he can only be glad he’s learned how to keep his hands steady. The last thing he wants to do is cause harm when he’s trying to help, and it wouldn’t do to be reckless about this. It requires a very gentle touch, and Dean’s been doing his very best to provide it as of late.

“Uh… Dean?”

Dean makes a face, but doesn’t let Sam’s voice interrupt him. “M'busy.”

He hears his brother come inside, and he keeps his eyes on his work. It’s warm in here, with all the concentrated UV lights and pretty heavy humidity, and Dean’s stipped down to a loose tank top to go with his jeans.

“What’re you doing in here?” Sam asks, and finally, Dean glances up. The greenhouse is a relatively unexplored part of the Men of Letters bunker, and one they’ve largely ignored in favour of sifting through the books and magical artifacts. Dean’s taken it upon himself to check it out recently, though, and he’s gotten a little attached. “Are those… gardening gloves?”

Dean glances down at his own hands and the rough-clothed gloves he’s wearing, and then back up at his brother. “Gotta keep ‘em soft. Soil dries them out and moisturizer is expensive.”

Sam just blinks at him a few times. “What are you doing?”

Dean shifts to the side and tilts his head down to the pot he’s been working with, clearing his throat slightly. “She, uh- she needed some attention. Wasn’t doin’ so well.”

Housed in the little ceramic pot is a small ivy. Nothing special; no fruits or flowers to speak of. There are any number of exotic plants scattered throughout the greenhouse, many of which have magical properties, but if this one has any to speak of, Dean hasn’t yet figured them out. “Wasn’t getting enough water, I guess, and she was clingin’ to a bunch of dead leaves… still tryin’ to feed them, even though it meant the rest of her didn’t get enough.”

He turns back to the little ivy and very gently picks off one last dead leaf, leaving her looking cleaner and more alive. Sam still hasn’t said anything, so Dean clears his throat and shifts in place a little, heat rising to his cheeks. “She- she’s just- I mean, I figured I might as well. S'good for… something.”

When he works up the nerve to glance at Sam again, his brother’s smiling, something amused and affectionate in his eyes that makes it a little easier to relax. “Never took you for a green thumb.”

Dean pulls a face and turns back to his little ivy. He reaches for the marker he’d stuffed into his pocket earlier and crouches down until the pot’s on eye-level, tugging the cap off and taking a moment to think. “Yeah, well someone’s gotta be. You like dogs, Cas likes bees-”

“You like plants?” Sam finishes, and he definitely sounds like he’s amused now, the bastard. Dean just huffs at him and scrawls a name onto the side of the pot, straightening up after the fact.

“Shut up.”

Lucy gets settled carefully where Dean found her to begin with, and he shucks the gloves a moment later before turning back to Sam. He squints at his brother a little bit suspiciously when he sees the way Sam’s raising his eyebrows and smiling, then huffs again and starts back towards the door.

“C'mon, s'time for lunch, Sasquatch.”

The plants aren’t the only ones that need taking care of every now and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	4. Two-Hundred Seventy-Nine: Loves Me Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know what I don’t get?” Dean asks out of the blue one day, because things are too quiet and that always leads to his thoughts spiralling down paths he isn’t up for exploring on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a great amount of concern for flowers. Dumb teenage boys.

“You know what I don’t get?” Dean asks out of the blue one day, because things are too quiet and that always leads to his thoughts spiralling down paths he isn’t up for exploring on his own.

Sam’s reading, the little nerd, curled up on the other end of the couch while Dean sprawls his way all over most of it, and glances up at him, wary-curious like he doesn’t know whether he should be entertaining this or not. Not unusual. “What?”

“The whole loves-me, loves-me-not thing.” Dean huffs a little, waving one arm up in the air above his head to emphasize his point. “That thing girls do with the flowers? I mean- what’s that gotta do with whether a guy likes ‘em? Why not just ask?”

Sam makes a face and sets his book down. Apparently this conversation requires most of his attention, which Dean appreciates. “Most people aren’t brave enough to do that, Dean.”

Dean just waves it off and continues. “And besides, it’s just cruel. Like- man, picking flowers is one thing, but tearing their petals off, one by one, until there aren’t any left?” He screws his face up with distase. “It’s like pulling off a bug’s wings, but- but a whole bunch more times. What’s that got to do with lovey-dovey shit? It’s messed up.”

For a long few seconds, Sam just stares at him. “Flowers don’t have feelings, Dean.”

“Shut up.” Dean stretches a leg out to poke his toes into Sam’s ribs and grins when his brother squirms and smacks at his shin. “Still doesn’t make it less messed up.”

Maybe Sam’s just decided to let him have this one, because he sighs melodramatically as he’s wont to do as of late and picks up his book again. “Whatever you say.”

Dean makes another face, but decides to let it drop. He’ll just have to worry about flowers all by himself, then. Sure won’t find him picking petals to ask a plant if someone loves him anytime soon.

'Sides, giving another peek towards his brother where he’s buried himself in his book again- well, Dean’s pretty sure he already knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	5. Two-Hundred Eighty: Sweetheart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Here we go, angel,” Mary says softly, shifting Dean in her arms as she stops in front of gleaming black metal. “This is her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary loves the car and Dean loves the car and it all makes me very happy.

“Here we go, angel,” Mary says softly, shifting Dean in her arms as she stops in front of gleaming black metal. “This is her.”

Dean’s eyes are big as dinner plates, and he’s already reaching, wanting to touch. He’s a very tactile child, and Mary doesn’t hesitate to step closer until his fingertips can brush over the hood. “Pretty,” he whispers, and Mary smiles all soft for him.

Of course he’s seen the car. He’s ridden in her, to the doctor’s or the park or the store. She stays in their driveway during the day, and- hell; he might never learn this himself, but he was conceived in her back seat. Dean knows the car, but Mary thinks- well, she thinks he doesn’t know the car quite well enough.

“Your dad bought her before you were even a little baby in my tummy,” she tells him while he pets his fingers over the cool metal. “And, well- we weren’t friends at first, because I thought we were getting something else… but then we fell in love. I can’t remember how I lived without her.”

Of course she can; she lived a life of fear and abnormality. Thinks maybe it’s why she was so hesitant to accept the Impala to begin with; it was everything her safe little family life wasn’t supposed to be, like her past was trying to claw her back into that place. Thinks now, maybe, watching her sweet little boy inspect the car with so much wonder, that she was wrong.

“You’re in love?” Dean asks, amazement clear in his voice as he peeks up ather. Mary smiles at him, soft. “What ‘bout Daddy?”

She laughs, then, ducks down to kiss him on the forehead. “That’s a different kind of love, baby. I love your daddy, but this-” She drops one hand to rest on the hood, warm from the sun and smooth to the touch. “She’s my baby. My pretty little sweetheart.”

Dean seems satisfied with that answer, and he flops back in her arms again with a happy sigh. “S'pretty.”

“Yeah, baby.” Mary laughs and hugs him tighter, bringing her hand back up from the hood. “She’s real pretty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	6. Two-Hundred Eighty-One: Back Roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nice thing about back roads is that there aren’t a whole lot of people around to give her second looks when she presses a little harder on the gas or rolls the windows down to let the wind through her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary and baby Dean.

The nice thing about back roads is that there aren’t a whole lot of people around to give her second looks when she presses a little harder on the gas or rolls the windows down to let the wind through her hair. Mary doesn’t get much time for it, these days- motherhood is a busy life- but some days, she manages to sneak away and grab a moment to herself.

This time is just a little bit different.

She’s real careful, driving like this, because little Dean is settled in her lap, pressed against her chest by the seatbelt and one of Mary’s arms. She can’t see his face, but he’s far from quiet, and his tone makes it clear exactly how awed he is.

They’re zipping down a country road, and it’s autumn- leaves changing, grass dying, crops harvesting. Makes for a hell of a landscape on their way by and Dean’s mesmerized while Mary keeps her eyes on the road and one hand on her little angel to keep him safe.

“Horsies!” Dean declares, sitting up a little higher and pointing out the window. Mary spares a glance for the field they’re passing, a handful of animals roaming lazy and free, and can’t help the smile she cracks. “S'pretty, Momma?”

“Yeah, baby. I see them.” Ducks down to give him a kiss on the top of the head because it makes him giggle, and God help her, but she can’t think of a damn thing in the world that makes her feel better than that sound.

Dean puts his little hands on the bottom of the steering wheel, too, when it gains his attention again, and for a moment, Mary just stares while he talks excitedly about helping her drive. Thinks about where she is now, with the light of her life narrowed down to such a singular point and everything in her past so far behind her. Thinks there was no time for driving a beautiful car down a country backroad when she was hunting ghosts in her spare time and wonders if it was all worth it.

“Cows!” Dean cheers, and Mary’s heart swells big while she hugs him a little tighter.

Yeah. Yeah, it really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	7. Two-Hundred Eighty-Two: Football

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ready, kiddo?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dad and little Dean!!

“Ready, kiddo?”

John watches as Dean prepares himself, a big huff of air and a lot of bouncing around on little feet like he isn’t physically capable of standing still. At this age, John wouldn’t be surprised; the kid’s nothing but boundless energy, just going on four now and constantly excited. It makes this more fun, and though, and that’s what counts. “Yeah!”

John grins at him and makes a big show of winding up. They’re in the backyard, the sun’s out, and there’s a little foam football in his hand- Dean’s favourite one after a neighbourhood dog got its teeth into the old one. It’s a little beat-up, but it does the job, and right now- well, the job’s to show his boy how to catch.

He throws the ball underhand ‘cause the last thing he wants to do it hurt Dean, and watches with the constant anticipatory concern that parents experience with their children. Dean, as he does, lets his eyes go all wide as the ball flies towards him, and then his tongue pokes out and he gets his game face on and he leaps for it.

He’s giggling by the time he hits the ground with the ball bundled in his arms, held tight to his chest like a real tight end, and John grins big as he heads over, not bothering to waste a second in scooping his kid off the ground and hugging him tight. “Touchdown?”

“Touchdown!” Dean cheers, hugging the ball to his chest and snuggling closer to John. John can’t wipe the smile off his face for the life of him, and with Dean like this- well, maybe that’s enough throwing for today. He doesn’t really want to let this end.

Being a dad is scary, sometimes- all the time, really- but right now, with Dean happy and laughing in his arms like he’s the only person in the world, it feels like it’s not really all that bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	8. Two-Hundred Eighty-Three: Little Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This s'my little brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean takes his little brother on a tour of the park.

“This s'my little brother.”

Sammy’s just little, so it ain’t hard for Dean to carry him around like this. He’s got the kid all bundled up against his chest, Sammy’s head tucked under his chin as his brother dozes against him. Just another day at the park, with their mom’s eyes on them from across the way, but Dean’s decided to take them on a little tour.

“Ma'am?” he says real soft to the next lady he sees, sitting by herself at a bench by the fountain. He waits until she looks at him before hoisting Sammy up a little higher in his arms and snuggling his brother close. “This is my little brother. He’s sleepy, n’ cute.”

The woman smiles and coos and Dean toddles away, off to find his next captive audience. Sammy’s arms are loose around his neck and Dean can hear him snuffling, all worn out after their playing, so it only makes sense for Dean to carry him around like this.

If he’s showing off a little bit, then that’s just a bonus.

“This is my little brother,” he whispers to a dog with a special-looking vest on, sitting straight and attentive at a man’s side while the man feeds the birds. “He likes puppies, jus’ like you.”

Dean lingers long enough to accept a curious sniff, and then continues on his way. There’s lots of people left at the park, and Sammy isn’t gonna be waking up anytime soon. He’s gotta make the most of it.

Across the field from them, Mary smiles and feels her heart big and warm in her chest. Her boys couldn’t love each other any more than they do, and she’s never been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	9. Two-Hundred Eighty-Four: Broken Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the whispering that draws Dean towards the kitchen, his kitty hugged tight to his chest as he tiptoes towards the sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has PTSD after Vietnam. Mary understands. Tiny Dean doesn't, but he still wants to help.

It’s the whispering that draws Dean towards the kitchen, his kitty hugged tight to his chest as he tiptoes towards the sound. He’s tired, woken by something crashing downstairs, and he’s sought out his parents in his distress, following the lights until he’d heard their voices. He’s got his footie pyjamas on and he’s rubbing at his eyes and when he reaches the doorway to the kitchen, he peeks inside, hoping to get some comfort.

What he finds instead is his parents, curled together- his daddy’s sitting on one of the dinner table’s chairs, and he’s hunched over, trembling, forehead resting against Momma’s belly and arms wrapped tight around her middle. He’s still speaking, and Dean figures that’s where the whispering was coming from in the first place.

His momma’s quiet, but she’s moving, fingers pushing through her husband’s hair slowly. She’s not shaking like he is, but there’s a sad look on her face that makes Dean’s chest hurt even as he steps carefully into the room.

“Momma?” he whispers, scared to disturb whatever’s going on. “Daddy?”

His momma’s the one who looks up, obviously startled, and Dean can see the way his daddy’s arms tighten around her. She doesn’t move away. “Dean, sweetie,” she says, just soft like she’s handling glass. “What’re you doing up?”

Dean’s scared, still, and his eyes are stuck on his daddy, but he takes a deep breath and toddles closer, anyways. His parents are safe. He knows they are, just like the sun is warm and the grass is green. He latches onto Momma’s pant leg when he gets close enough and hides his face there, closing his eyes while he hugs his kitty tight with one arm.

“S'loud,” Dean mumbles without looking up, and a moment later, he feels the tickle of fingers in his hair, calming him down. He peeks one eye open, just for a moment, and it’s only then that he spots the glint of light on broken shards of glass across the room- a drinking glass, he thinks. One of the ones Daddy uses, sometimes, when he’s in a good mood, and it’s laying in a little puddle of liquid against the wall. He wonders if maybe that’s what made the sound. “What’s wrong with Daddy?”

At that point, though, things move very fast, and before he realizes what’s happening, Dean’s being scooped up in big hands and then he’s being hugged tight to his daddy’s chest, a strong pair of arms holding him there and Daddy’s beard scratching gently against his neck. Dean’s startled and his eyes are big and confused but he doesn’t try to fight it, letting himself be held before slowly curling closer.

“I’m sorry,” his daddy whispers into his hair, and Dean swallows hard. He can feel Daddy shaking, still, and it scares him. “I’m so sorry.”

Dean stays quiet because he doesn’t know what to do, and a moment later he feels his momma come closer, wrapping her arms around the both of them. It’s confusing and it hurts in a way that Dean doesn’t like, but he closes his eyes and slowly hugs his daddy back, ‘cause hugs are the only way Dean knows how to fix things like this.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with his daddy, but he does know that he wants to make it better. He wants to fix it; it’s just that he doesn’t know how.

There’s no more broken glass that night, and Dean ends up in bed between his parents. Things aren’t so scary that way for any of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	10. Two-Hundred Eighty-Five: Most Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most days, Mary wishes that she could tell John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary and trauma.

Most days, Mary wishes that she could tell John.

She knows he has his own troubles. Though he gets better every day, it’s obvious that his time serving overseas has had its effect on him, and it comes out in scary ways, sometimes. He doesn’t have many big episodes, and they’re even fewer and farther between since Dean was born, but he still has his moments- broken glasses, alcohol, flashbacks. He’s making an effort, but he’s still hurting, and she gets it. She does.

She just wishes that she had the same sort of understanding in her life.

She wishes that she could talk to him when she wakes up from a nightmare about finding her mother dead on the floor. She wishes she could tell him exactly what that demon made her do- what she had to commit to. She wishes she could tell him why she’s been stocking up on iron and salt in preparation for the day her deal comes due, and why she needed to make it in the first place, but-

But then there are the days she doesn’t want it at all.

She already knows what happened when John got pulled into her world. She got to watch, firsthand, as he was killed before her eyes, only to be revived by the same cruel hand. Nothing will ever erase that from her mind, and above all else, she wants to protect him from needing to bear that burden, too. He doesn’t deserve to take that on.

So some days, she wants to tell him. Some days she wants to curl up in John’s arms and cry and tell him what it was like to grow up with a shotgun in her hands and holy water in her back pocket. How it was to watch the world she was raised to fear tear both her parents away from her in one fell swoop, and to be left to deal with the aftermath. How it felt to burn their bodies in the middle of the night, cold and scared and utterly alone. How it feels to fear the ten-year mark, because she doesn’t have a damn idea what’s headed her way.

But then she’ll see the way John smiles when he holds their son, or the soft, quiet moments the two of them have together. The way he says hello when he gets home from work and the way he kisses her before he goes to bed; the warm spark in his eyes when they’re alone, like they’re just kids again and there’s nothing in the world that can hurt them.

Those are the times that remind her to keep quiet. Her past has already soiled enough of the world around her, and she will not let it have John.

Not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	11. Two-Hundred Eighty-Six: Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re scaring him,” Mary whispers, and John won’t look her in the eye, and this was never how things were supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More with John and PTSD and Mary trying to fix things.

“You’re scaring him,” Mary whispers, and John won’t look her in the eye, and this was never how things were supposed to be.

This was always supposed to be her escape. After everything that’s happened, all she’d wanted was to leave the abnormal behind- to find safety in the little family she was building for herself. Dean’s two years old and she’s properly married to John, and things are supposed to be good, now. Things are supposed to be safe.

Things weren’t supposed to go this way.

John has outbursts, sometimes, and- and Mary knows it isn’t his fault. Knows he’s still hurting after the war, and thinks to herself, quietly, that maybe a part of him remembers being killed, too; remembers that demon snapping his neck like a dry twig. Not that she’ll ever mention it, but sometimes she swears she can smell sulphur when he has his nightmares and she’s nothing if not paranoid.

But they- they scare Dean. Her little boy sees his daddy shouting or muttering to himself or finding comfort in glass bottles and he’s scared. He never says so, because he’s young and soft and tries so hard to keep them both happy, but she can see it in his eyes and in the way he clings to her, and she doesn’t know what to do.

John doesn’t seem to, either.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he whispers, and he’s got his hands pressed to his eyes like he’s trying to claw the memories out with his fingernails. Mary lingers a few feet away because she knows better than to get too close when he’s like this. “The things I’ve seen, the- the things I’ve done. I’ve hurt people, Mary, I’ve- I’ve killed.”

And isn’t that the kicker?

Mary thinks about all the blood on her hands and she breathes out slow because this isn’t the place and it certainly isn’t the time. She pushes aside her own trauma and fear and she steps closer, because John is her husband and she is his wife, and their baby boy needs her to make this better.

“I know,” she tells him softly, waits until she’s close enough to cup his rough-stubbled cheek before speaking again. “And you’re a good man, John. You’re such a good man.”

He doesn’t say a damn thing to that, and the both of them fall quiet. It’s late, and Mary’s normal and safe is nothing that she expected. They’ve got their toddler asleep upstairs and more skeletons than most families could ever hope to hide in their closets, but that doesn’t mean she won’t try to make it better.

She’ll try to make it okay, because even if it’s too late for her and John, Dean deserves this much. He deserves to grow up safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	12. Two-Hundred Eighty-Eight: Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dying so early in her little angel’s life, the last thing Mary expects is for him to have ended up just like her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a whole lot of feelings about Dean and Mary.
> 
> Day 287 was uploaded separately as the first chapter in [12,01: Codas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8284231). It's been added to this series, if you want to check it out!

After dying so early in her little angel’s life, the last thing Mary expects is for him to have ended up just like her.

She sees John in the way he dresses and the car he drives. The way he holds himself, even; smiles and big movements and the swagger with which he walks. John’s music is in the car and John’s scent- all leather and motor oil and gunpowder she doesn’t recognize- permeate the upholstery.

But Dean is… Dean isn’t John.

Dean is softer, she thinks. It’s there in the way he calls for her, the way he holds her when they hug for the first time. How he gives her his jacket and keeps one hand on her like she’ll vanish if he looks away; the way he smiles and looks away and the pride with which he shows her the Impala. There’s something gentle in his eyes that Mary recognizes in herself, and remembers from the days of bottle-feeding the little boy who stands before her now, fully grown, and it aches something fierce.

They’ve only just met, really, and there’s still so much she has to learn about Dean- about Sammy, too; about both her little boys who aren’t really very little at all anymore- but she sees a piece of herself when she looks into his eyes and it sits tight and heavy in her chest, something like pride and something like she’s going to start crying.

He’s a total stranger and she loves him so, so much. She just wants to understand why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	13. Two-Hundred Eighty-Nine: Good Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, uh…” Dean clears his throat awkwardly, shifting a little bit in his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Mary and the car.

“So, uh…” Dean clears his throat awkwardly, shifting a little bit in his seat. He can feel his mom’s eyes shift over to him and doesn’t really know how to go about this. They’re in the car, halfway to their next lead, and he’s never been a fan of silence. “You and… the car, huh?”

He isn’t looking at her but he can feel her grin the same way he can feel the sunlight coming in through the windshield. “Yeah. What about it?”

Dean shrugs and rubs his hands over the steering wheel. Nervous habit. “Guess I never thought you were really into her, s'all.”

“Wasn’t, at first.” She hums, soft and thoughtful, and Dean finally glances over at her. Her eyes have drifted back towards the dashboard, and her fingertips follow, tracing out nonsensical shapes against the plastic. “John was supposed to get a different car… I kept trying to convince him to bring her back at first, but- well, a couple good experiences can change your opinion on pretty much anything.”

She’s smiling again, and Dean blinks. “Good… experiences,” he repeats, careful and slow.

“Oh, yeah.” She looks at him, and their eyes meet, and she’s- she’s smirking. She’s got an honest-to-god smirk on her face and Dean’s brought back to that moment in the garage again, and… Christ. “Really good memories.”

Dean turns back to the road slowly because he can feel his cheeks flushing red as the devil’s tail, and he doesn’t have a damn thing to say in response. Mary stays quiet after that, but he’s pretty sure she’s laughing at him, all the same.

Maybe he shouldn’t have asked, and maybe he’ll be giving the back seat a thorough scrubbing next time he’s got the chance. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	14. Two-Hundred Ninety: Stairway to Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold, and she’s buying a stairway to heaven…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary and baby Dean.

“There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold, and she’s buying a stairway to heaven…”

Dean’s all sleepy-soft in her arms, tiny fingers curled in her shirt like he wants to make absolutely sure that she won’t leave. Mary’s got herself settled in the rocking chair in his nursery, the only light in the room coming from the small, kitten-shaped nightlight by the door. It’s quiet, just past midnight in the middle of the week, and the rest of their little neighbourhood is already asleep. John’s probably close to it, as well, and it’s like the entire world has come to rest except for the two of them.

Dean’s obviously exhausted, and she knows he wants to go to sleep. He just needs a little bit of help.

“When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed,” Mary whisper-sings to him, voice soft and sleep-rough and warm, “with a word she can get what she came for.”

It’s the softest Zeppelin song she knows and Dean has always loved the classics. His pretty green eyes are already closed, lips parted in a tiny “o” as he drifts off in her arms. Mary doesn’t stop singing as she carefully moves to stand, keeping Dean close so he can hear her heartbeat along with her voice.

“Ooh, ooh,” she hums while she steps over to his crib and carefully lays him down. He immediately curls around the little stuffed kitty he’s got and Mary tucks his blanket around his body. “And she’s buying a stairway to heaven…”

Dean’s asleep by the time she closes the door behind her, still humming under her breath and thinking of angels. She’s always liked the idea of Heaven, and she thinks her beautiful baby boy with his tiny little hands and constant need for love and affection is a little slice of exactly that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	15. Two-Hundred Ninety-One: Scarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scarf is too big for anyone to reasonably wear, Sam thinks, and yet, here they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cozy and soft brothers!!

The scarf is too big for anyone to reasonably wear, Sam thinks, and yet, here they are. He doesn’t have the heart to tell his brother to cut it out, because Dean’s got that concentrated look on his face, when his tongue pokes out between his lips and his forehead scrunches up, the way he always gets when he’s working on a particularly important task. Right now, that task just happens to be getting Sam bundled up to go outside, even though-

“Dean, s'only fifty,” he says, muffled through the wool that’s been meticulously wrapped around his neck and the lower half of his face. It’s soft, at least, a treasure dug out from a little thrift store a few states back, and it smells like fabric softener. “S'not that cold.”

Dean himself isn’t wearing nearly as many layers as Sam is; he’s got a hat and a jacket and a ratty pair of gloves that leave his fingertips exposed, and Sam feels a little like a human burrito. “Don’t want you gettin’ sick again, Sammy.”

And- okay, Sam remembers that, catching the flu last year and ending up all sniffly and miserable in bed for a couple days, but he doesn’t think this will fix it. He opens his mouth again to say so, but instead he’s just left with soft wool against his lips and the inability to overlook the hint of guilt in his big brother’s eyes.

He knew that Dean had felt terrible back then, doting on him to the point of ridiculousness while he wasn’t feeling well, but it hadn’t occurred to Sam that Dean would still be holding onto that feeling a year later. He thinks it’s a little silly for Dean to blame himself for something like the common cold, but Dean’s silly about lots of things. Sometimes it’s easier to just let them go.

This, at least, is something that isn’t hard to allow.

“If I fall over and can’t get up, you’re gonna have to roll me home,” he says solemnly, and Dean snorts out a laugh as he pulls a toque down over Sam’s ears, finally appearing satisfied with his work. It’s very cozy, and Sam figures his only exposed skin is the strip above his nose and below his forehead.

“Deal,” Dean says in all seriousness, and then turns towards the door. “C'mon, we’re wastin’ daylight!”

Sam toddles after him, only slightly impeded by his excessive layers, and thinks that it’s okay, sometimes, to just humour Dean. It’s easier than trying to fight against him on these matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	16. Two-Hundred Ninety-Two: Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there’s anything that Dean’s learned in his twenty-something years of life, it’s how to appreciate the female form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean really loves women. Just. A lot.

If there’s anything that Dean’s learned in his twenty-something years of life, it’s how to appreciate the female form.

He knows there’s a line between admiring someone and being creepy. He’s learned to pick out the facial expressions that are inviting versus the ones that tell him to keep walking. He’s honed it down to a science, really, a mathematical sort of system that picks out anything and everything beautiful about a woman with a half-second glance, and man, are women ever beautiful.

Big women, small women. Women he can pick up in one arm and women who dwarf him (one hell of an impressive feat, might he add). Women with long hair and short hair and no hair at all; women who smile or frown or laugh or cry. Women who say “please” and women who order him around. Women who won’t even give him the time of day.

Dean’s never met a woman who isn’t beautiful, and every time he sees a new pretty face- well, he just counts himself an even luckier man. Not everyone gets to meet as many beautiful women as he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	17. Two-Hundred Ninety-Three: Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And she was so pretty, Sammy. Like- like a real-life angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An angsty thing. Small Sammy isn't happy about how much Dean talks about their mom.

“And she was so pretty, Sammy. Like- like a real-life angel.”

Sam’s big brother always sounds like this when he’s talking about their mom. Sort of sad, but mostly awed. Mostly like there’s nothing else that matters in the world, with that far-off look in his eyes and the dreamy sighs he lets slip. This is always when Dean seems most at peace, and like maybe he’s got something he loves, and Sam-

Sam hates it.

He hates hearing these stories, ‘cause that’s all they are to him. Make-believe like how sometimes they play soldiers or cowboys and Indians, just another game of pretend. Pretending he knows who Dean’s talking about or like any of it’s important to him when in reality, his mom is just another face. Someone he wouldn’t even know if it weren’t for the pictures in Daddy’s wallet or the way Dean won’t stop talking about her.

She isn’t even real, but she takes up all of his big brother’s attention, no matter how hard Sam tries to steal it away. Some days, Sam think she’s the only person Dean even cares about, and it- it’s-

“And she was a really good singer, too, and-”

“Shut up.”

Dean stops short and he looks a little confused, like maybe Sam’s started speaking a different language. He blinks, and Sam just watches him, heart beating quick and hard. “What? What’s wr-”

“Shut up!”

He knows he’s close to tears now, and he can feel them burning at his eyes, but Sam- Sam just stands up, quivering, watching the confusion just grow on Dean’s face. He looks all sad-gentle-soft and Sam wants it to stop; wants to take that look away because he knows it isn’t for him. What does a dead person even matter anymore?

“Sammy,” Dean says, real slow like he’s trying not to startle him, and it makes Sam angrier. “What’s wrong? You- I thought you liked hearing about Mo-”

“Stop it!” Sam barks out, and he’s crying now, the tears slipping free without his permission. “Why do you always have to talk about her? She- she’s dead! She doesn’t matter!”

And he must’ve said something wrong, because all at once Dean’s expression shifts from something soft into something angry. He stands, too, and he’s bigger than Sam, and- and Dean would never, ever hurt him, but it’s scary to see him like this. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She’s dead.” He says it again, anyways, because he’s angry and hurt and there’s no turning back from this. “She’s dead, an’- an’ just- just shut up about her!”

He doesn’t stick around to see where that leaves Dean, just pushing roughly past his brother and running towards the bathroom. It’s the closest thing to privacy he can have in these tiny rooms, and the thought just makes him angrier- makes him hate her for putting them here. She doesn’t exist, and it’s all her fault that they need to live like this. It’s all her fault that Dean doesn’t love him more than he loves a ghost.

Sam locks the door behind him, and that’s when he breaks down for real. He doesn’t know how long he cries, but his head aches and his nose is stuffed by the time he’s done. Dean’s not around when he finally cracks the door open, and they don’t share a mattress that night.

Dean never talks about their mother again. Sometimes, Sam feels guilty about that.

Mostly, though, a tiny, selfish part of him is grateful. He doesn’t want Dean to have someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	18. Two-Hundred Ninety-Four: Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam doesn’t like it when his big brother ignores him, but he thinks that this time, it might be a little bit his own fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the previous piece with tiny Sammy.

Sam doesn’t like it when his big brother ignores him, but he thinks that this time, it might be a little bit his own fault.

He knows how much Dean loves their mom, gone as she may be, but it isn’t fair. It's not fair that she gets so much of his love when Sam- Sam needs it more. Sam’s still here, and Sam needs Dean more than anyone else ever has, even though he might never say those words out loud. So now that Dean’s ignoring him, probably because of her, he’s only more upset.

Except- except he knows where Dean keeps his pictures, and.

And maybe he can get rid of her for good.

Dean’s out with Dad, now, and Sam doesn’t know why, but it’s not that it matters. His bag is here, and his bag is where he keeps all of his most prized possessions, so that’s where Sam goes, fuelled by jealousy and hurt when he plops down beside it to start digging through his brother’s things. Clothes and a couple of old books- books that Dean’s read to him dozens of times, on request, and Sam holds them for a long few seconds before setting them down and carefully cracking them open.

The pictures are carefully tucked inside of a book called Slaughterhouse Five, one that’s got too many words he doesn’t understand, and that he suspects even his big brother would not be able to read. Sam picks out the old photos with careful fingers and brings them close for inspection, holding his breath.

The woman smiling up at him is a stranger. She’s got pretty blonde hair and warm eyes, and she’s holding Dean in the image, both of them obviously happy. Sam can’t look away from her, taking in every detail of her face like he’s waiting for something to come to him. Some kind of realization or feeling that will connect him to her and help him understand why Dean is so desperately attached.

Sam doesn’t find anything that he knows, in the end, but what he stumbles upon instead is… Dean.

She reminds him of his big brother. They’ve got the same smile, and the same the same eyes. They’ve got the same tenderness about them, and the longer he looks at her… the easier it becomes to imagine that she would not hesitate to love him and keep him safe.

Sam’s fingers are trembling, because he came here to destroy these memories, and to try to take her away from Dean forever, but-

But now he’s got a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes and he doesn’t think he can.

The photos return to their hiding place and Sam carefully repacks his brother’s things, quiet and lonely, and he spends the rest of the day waiting for his brother to come home. When Dean walks through the door, talking to their dad about something that isn’t important, Sam throws himself at the older boy, clinging and mumbling apologies and trying his very best not to cry.

He doesn’t tell Dean what he’s saying sorry for, but as soon as he gets over his confusion, he goes right back to treating Sam like he’s the very most important person in the world.

Maybe there’s room for both of them, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	19. Two-Hundred Ninety-Five: Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting caught isn’t exactly part of the plan, but Dean’s never been shy about thinking on his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little thing from 12.02. Uh. Violent murder. And brother-hugging.

Getting caught isn’t exactly part of the plan, but Dean’s never been shy about thinking on his feet. He grins and snarks at the woman who finds him, apparently incredibly pleased with herself, and buries his anger for now. He recognizes her voice from the phone; if he didn’t know for sure that Sam was here before, then he certainly does now. Much as he wants to put her on the ground and show her how it feels to fuck with a Winchester, she’s taking him somewhere. In fact, Dean’s got a sneaking suspicion that she’s taking him right to Sam.

His gut’s never failed him before, and this is no different.

Soon as the door swings open and he sees his baby brother shackled to that chair, sees the dullness in his eyes and slow, unsure way he responds to them entering, hears the soft little “Dean?” that Sam breathes out, Dean-

Dean. Snaps.

The barrel of a gun is pressed against the small of his back but he’s not thinking too hard, right now, and it’s easy as breathing to slam his entire body weight into the tiny woman who led him here. She curses and stumbles and Dean’s already turning; goes straight for her gun-hand and grabs her wrist tight enough for the bones to grind together, and she drops the weapon, and that’s all Dean really needs.

He hears Sam shouting for him, somewhere distant, but the blood is roaring in his ears and he can’t be bothered to think around it. He’s bigger than her and he’s still riding the element of surprise when he throws her to the ground, and from there things move quickly; scoops her gun up off the floor and flicks the safety and.

Her whole body twitches hard when he shoots her, clean through the temple, but she doesn’t move at all after that.

The gun’s discharge leaves a ringing silence in its wake, and slowly, Dean’s able to turn towards his brother. Sam’s eyes are wide, a dozen kinds of shock flitting over his features, and it’s all Dean can do right now to drop the gun and walk towards him, listening to the way it clatters against the concrete floor.

He thinks he should feel something more, after killing a woman in cold blood, but the adrenaline still rushes through his veins and he likes the way his heart beats quick and relentless against the back of his throat.

“Dean,” Sam says again, softer, and Dean can’t manage a damn word as he plucks the keys off the little table to the side of the room. “Are you… is this-”

Dean’s reached his brother properly by the time Sam manages to finish his question, and even halfway through working the shackles off his ankles- fumes silently about the bloodied, burned state of Sam’s feet- he goes real still at the words. “Are you real?”

He looks up slowly, meets Sam’s eyes that don’t seem to know whether to be scared or hopeful. Twists the key in the lock to free Sam properly and gets a hand on Sam’s good knee, squeezing gently. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Real as it gets, Sammy.”

An armful of oversized little brother is not what he expects to receive, but Dean doesn’t hesitate for a second to accept it, all the same, even as he loses his balance and falls back on his ass. Sam’s halfway on top of him and they’re both just clinging to each other, the smell of sweat and blood and dirt pervading Dean’s nose but he doesn’t care, really. Finds the little hints of Sammy underneath it and grabs hold of them, closing his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, even though it maybe isn’t completely true. There’s a body several feet behind him and he tries not to think about it. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

They’ve got a lot to talk about, and Dean doesn’t even know where to begin, but this is-

This is okay, for now. This is what they both need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	20. Two-Hundred Ninety-Six: Bad Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s hard to admit when things get overwhelming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous prompt: "i know you're writing other stuff too rn but. i'm reading drabbles about how awful dean'/ life is and i'm once again mad about how the show seems to brush off his mental states so. a drabble with how some days dean can't even get out of bed and sammy is all soft and understanding and maybe dean sheds some silent tears and sam's there to hold his big brother"
> 
> Just some emo brother cuddles.

It’s hard to admit when things get overwhelming.

Dean prides himself on being impossible to break. He’s been an invincible superhero since he was four years old; since he carried his little brother out of a burning house and resolved to always keep him safe. He takes everything the world throws at him and he swallows it without choking or stopping to breathe, and that’s how it’s always been, and it’s…

He never really knows when or how to slow down.

It still creeps up on him, most times. If Dean’s got one weakness, he figures maybe it’s how shitty he is at paying attention to himself- not that it matters, most days; other people need his attention more than he does, and he’d rather worry about keeping his brother fed and happy than his own mental state, but it doesn’t always work, really, and it’s times like this when he thinks maybe it’s not the smartest way to go about living his life.

It comes in quiet but hits him hard, weighs him down so bad it’s hard to even open his eyes in the morning. Hell and Purgatory and every single death on his conscious, every drop of blood he’s spilled, every mistake he’s made and every time he’s screwed up that makes him sure he doesn’t deserve to be the one who’s still standing; that makes it hard to  _breathe_ let alone work up the ambition to get himself up and out of bed.

Those are the days when he thinks he’d be better off just letting himself waste away. Nothing in the world makes it seem worth slogging through the haze and fighting it off, and those days- those days, he doesn’t bother to try.

But then- then there’s Sam.

Sam has those days, too. Dean’s spent one too many hours at his brother’s bedside, just a silent presence the way he’s always been. Offering comfort the only way he knows how; by  _being_ there. He’s never been good at leaving his little brother alone, certainly not in moments of distress, and sometimes he’s arrogant enough to think it helps. But the thing is that Sam…

Sam gets it, he thinks.

Sam has those days, so when it’s Dean’s turn to struggle- when Dean breaks down and thinks that the world doesn’t need or want him anymore, and that his life was never worth living to begin with, Sam’s real good at one thing. Sam’s good at being there.

They never really talk, on those days. Dean will be in his bed, eyes closed and fingers itching to reach for his iPod, to try to drown out the silence that just makes the heaviness worse, and Sam will, eventually, inevitably, come find him. He’ll slip inside and shut the door behind him and he won’t touch the lightswitch, and he’ll just. Come close. Never expects Dean to talk to him, either; he’ll pull up a chair and just keep him company. Some days, when it’s really bad- when Dean’s fingers are itching for his gun, instead, when he can’t decide whether the bullets will be for a monster or for himself- he’ll come closer, too.

In a twisted sort of way, those days are Dean’s favourite. The ones where Sam crawls right into bed with him like they’re little kids on a too-small mattress again, limbs all tangled together and hearts beating as one. Sam will hold him close, arms a comforting, constant pressure around his body that make it so much easier for Dean to breathe, and sometimes, when he’s lucky, he’ll just. Fall asleep.

They never talk, on those days, but Sam’s presence in itself is everything that needs to be said. 

Sometimes, Dean just needs his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	21. Two-Hundred Ninety-Seven: Mother Knows Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m your mother,” Mary teases him, and when Dean glances towards her, there’s a playful glint in her eye that’s more familiar than he’d like to admit. “You have to do what I say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just. Terrible. Awful. The first thing that came to mind when Mary said those words because I'm garbage.
> 
> Um. Mommycest undertones. Dean/Mary. UM

“I’m your mother,” Mary teases him, and when Dean glances towards her, there’s a playful glint in her eye that’s more familiar than he’d like to admit. “You have to do what I say.”

Those words shouldn’t have nearly the effect on him that they do, and he’s quick to return his attention to the road ahead, pretending like they haven’t caused an uncomfortable tightness in his pants.

It’s not his fault that his mother is such a beautiful woman, or that she seems intent on hitting every single one of his buttons at once. He can’t help the way his thought process is suddenly flooded with what-ifs, with Mary smiling at him all soft and sweet and telling him to “just sit back, sweetheart, let me do the work. Mother knows best.”

If there was ever a doubt as to how much he’d deserved those decades of torture in Hell, he’s pretty sure that this clears it up.

“Something wrong, Dean?” she asks, and Dean startles, grips the steering wheel a little tighter while he tries not to flush red up to the tips of his ears. She sounds a little worried, and he curses himself- things are still delicate between them, testing their boundaries and figuring out how to interact, and he’s probably gone and screwed things up. “Are you alright?”

He forces himself to shake it off. Takes a deep breath and thinks about absolutely everything besides those words coming out of his mother’s mouth.

“I’m good,” he lies, maybe the easiest one he ever tells. “Just, ah- want to get there faster.”

Dean gives up on that particular line of conversation, and the car falls quiet once more. He tries his very best not to allow his thoughts to wander.

He’s never been any good at controlling his own head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	22. Two-Hundred Ninety-Nine: Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a comfort, working in the kitchen, and Dean’s always associated that feeling with his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just always upset about Dean and Mary. Forever.
> 
> Day 298 was uploaded separately as [Boundaries](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8368333), and can be found as part of this series. Mind the warnings!

It’s a comfort, working in the kitchen, and Dean’s always associated that feeling with his mother. It seems that so many of the memories he has from those brief childhood years are anchored in sitting and watching her work, in his highchair or the big-boy one he’d grown into just before her death. Now, with the scene reversed, things are a little strange, but he clings to the soft parts of it, all the same.

Mary’s at the table on the other side of the sleek, metal counter Dean’s set himself up at, and he can feel her eyes on him while he works. It’s nothing special; he’s making breakfast because it’s what he does and apparently, Sam got his early-rising habits from their mother. She’s wrapped up in his robe, again, apparently having claimed it as her own for the time being, and she’s working away at a cup of tea while Dean prepares pancakes and bacon and eggs.

“You really thought I cooked, huh?” she murmurs while he throws some chocolate chips into his batter- he’s always been a big advocate for chocolate at breakfast- and it catches him off-guard. Dean’s not really sure if the words were even meant for him, but when he looks up, his mother’s watching him, something thoughtful and sad in her expression.

He doesn’t know how to respond, so he drops his eyes again, raising and dropping his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. “I mean… I was a little kid. You fed me, so- what else was I gonna think?”

His mom laughs at that, and she sounds a little less melancholy. “I guess that’s fair. But you’ve picked up pretty well, haven’t you?”

Dean remembers years of feeding himself and his brother, making due with what little money they could scrape together to keep Sammy growing and healthy. Even remembers cooking for their dad, from time to time. Just as a special treat. He hadn’t even tried to hide his excitement when they’d settled in the bunker and discovered the professional-grade kitchen. “S'just something to do, I guess. Someone’s gotta keep us fed.”

She stays quiet for a moment, but then she stands, and Dean glances up to see her shuffling towards the counter where he’s working. He holds his breath because he doesn’t know what to expect, but she’s still got her little mug cradled between her hands and she comes to settle at his side, looking over the station he’s set up for himself. “Maybe- I mean, maybe you could show me a thing or two? I only ever learned how to make cereal.”

That makes Dean laugh, even as his face warms a bit. Thinks about teaching his mother a skill he picked up to mirror the person he thought she was and how backwards it feels. “Yeah, Sam’s the same way,” he says with a grin. “But we can fix that, yeah?”

His mom mixes the batter for him, and Dean has a surprisingly good time talking her through everything he does. She seems like an intent student, and by the time Sam wanders in looking sleepy and following the smell of food- well, she knows how to use a whisk, if nothing else.

That’s okay, though. They’ve got lots of time for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	23. Three-Hundred: EMF

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam might not have seen his brother in two years, and they may still be at odds about a few things- a lot of things might be fairer to say- and maybe he’s still getting into the rhythm of recognizing the ebb and flow of Dean’s emotions, but really, it would’ve taken an idiot not to notice the stricken look he’d adopted after Sam’s thoughtless comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous prompt: "Okay, Ally, you've made me all emotional over Dean's homemade EMF meter. Any way I can prompt some H/C after Sam realizes how Dean took his 'I can see that' statement? Like you, I've always had all kinds of FEELINGS about that moment! (And no worries if you'd rather not write anything about it - just thought I'd ask in case you were willing! <3)"
> 
> I've got so many thoughts about this, and I'm. Just. Dean is so smart. A lot of hurt with a tiny bit of comfort.

Sam might not have seen his brother in two years, and they may still be at odds about a few things- a  _lot_ of things might be fairer to say- and maybe he’s still getting into the rhythm of recognizing the ebb and flow of Dean’s emotions, but really, it would’ve taken an idiot not to notice the stricken look he’d adopted after Sam’s thoughtless comment. More obvious, still, had been the way he’d closed off afterwards, turning away and keeping quiet and to himself throughout the rest of the investigation, and Sam just-

Sam wants to smack himself. 

It’s so easy to forget that he’s still treading on the thin ice of whatever their relationship has become, and that there have always been topics that are a little too sore to try teasing about. It’s been too many years, though, and when things had been going so well, he hadn’t stopped to think…

That’s just the problem, he supposes, is that he hadn’t thought. Hadn’t thought for a moment how the words would affect his brother.

The rest of the case passes by as usual, though Dean comes out of the whole thing more than a little shaken by the plane ride they’d been forced to take. The car’s still back where they boarded in the first place, and they’re left without a whole lot of options besides climbing onto the first bus they find and hunkering down for a few hours of travel. By the time they’re settled, Sam’s thoughts have circled back to the re-purposed Walkman, and…

Maybe it’s not fair to take advantage of Dean’s unsteady state post-flight, but Sam doesn’t know what other chance he’ll have to address this.

There are two-dozen other people on this bus and it’s two o’clock in the morning, and Sam tries to fix things.

“You really made that EMF meter yourself?” he asks quietly, and Dean’s half-asleep at his side where they’re in a constant battle for elbow room and he tenses the way he always does when Sam tries to probe something sensitive. There’s nowhere for Dean to run now, though, so he presses on, intent on his goal. “How’d you do it?”

Dean stays quiet for a long moment, staring out the bus window, and Sam starts to think, with a sinking feeling, that his brother will simply ignore his question. When he speaks, it’s quiet, barely audible over the constant rumble of the engine. “Messed with some of the wiring,” he mumbles. “Walkman had a radio antenna on it, and they basically work the same way, so I just had to… adjust what it was looking for. Got a fancier antenna, too, once I scraped some money together.”

He says it like it doesn’t matter, but Sam’s floored. He hadn’t given it much thought at the time, but this is- it’s beyond impressive. He hadn’t even studied much into the hard science of EMF, just because it’s never interested him, but here Dean is not only knowing it, but understanding it enough to build his own device, and it’s…

“That’s amazing,” he says softly, stifling none of the awe in his tone. “That’s- that’s incredible, Dean. Where’d you learn to do that stuff?”

Dean’s still not looking at him, but he shifts in his seat, curling in on himself a little more like- like he’s  _embarrassed_. “Just kinda… picked it up, I guess. Started tinkering.” He shrugs roughly, apparently determined to leave this topic behind. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Dean.” And Sam waits that time, waits until his brother peeks over at him, something vulnerable in his expression that Sam suspects wouldn’t be visible if Dean wasn’t so tired and so shaken from the hunt. “It does matter. You’re a genius to even think of something like that, and actually making it work-” He stops to swallow hard, overwhelmed for a moment. “You’d make a hell of an engineer.”

That makes Dean laugh, and some of the tension eases from Sam’s stomach as his brother shakes his head, a small, wry smile on his lips. “Damn shame I’m a hunter, then, huh?” he says simply, then turns back to the window, done with the conversation.

The words hit Sam hard, though, and he’s left to stare at the seat in front of him, quiet and sad.

Dean is so much smarter than he’ll ever give himself credit for- smarter than  _anyone_ gives him credit for, including Sam, he notes with a hint of guilt, and he’s slotted himself into this life of pain and terror and death, resigned to an early grave and nothing to leave behind. 

Yeah. It’s a damn fucking shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	24. Three-Hundred One: Pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dean goes to sleep that night- when he passes out from physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion- he dreams of being a little boy again. Mary’s little boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thing from after 12.03, when Mary leaves the bunker. I was going to try to make it better, but instead I made it a whole lot worse. A lot of angst.

When Dean goes to sleep that night- when he passes out from physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion- he dreams of being a little boy again. Mary’s little boy.

He’s four years old and hiding behind her skirts, untainted by the world of hunting and soft at all his edges. She smiles for him, and she laughs, and she sings, and she scoops him up in her arms and they dance around the kitchen while the meatloaf heats up, and Dean still thinks it’s homemade. His father reads a newspaper at the table, and Sammy’s in his high chair, and they’re both smiling, John humming along while Sammy giggles and coos.

Dean’s eyes are all for his mother, though, the soft and safe lines of her face and the way she sways the both of them back and forth to the beat the radio sets for them, and when he wraps his arms tight around her neck and feels her hug him back, he thinks maybe it would be best if he stayed here forever.

It’s a world of pretending and of closing his eyes to the tragedy that surrounds him; the living, breathing reality that no one ever stays. He loves and he loses, over and over again, and one of these days, he isn’t going to have anything left to give…

But here, things are okay. The sun creeps through the kitchen’s blinds and his family is here, and in this private, imaginary place-

Here, at least, his mother knows how to love him.

Here, Dean is still her little boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	25. Three-Hundred Two: Fairytale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean thinks he hates himself a little for believing in fairytales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst with Dean and Mary.

Dean thinks he hates himself a little for believing in fairytales.

He’s always bugged Sam for it; made fun of his brother whenever he mentions Snow White or Cinderella or any of their Prince Charmings. It’s childish, it’s silly; it’s something he stays far away from because he’s past that. He’s an adult and he’s a hunter and fairytales aren’t real when the devil’s at your back and even the angels are just flying douchebags, but it’s-

It’s hard not to think they’ve found their happily-ever-after when Mary stumbles back into their lives.

It’s the bits and pieces of happiness onto which Dean clings. She loves the same music he does and she thinks the car is beautiful and they laugh at the same jokes, and she’s- she’s alive. She’s perfect and beautiful and alive, and he’s so blinded by the good thing that’s suddenly been handed to them that he doesn’t bother to look at the hairline fractures that grow by the hour.

She’s alone. She’s afraid. She’s mourning.

Sam tries to warn him, but there’s no way Dean could’ve prepared himself for losing her.

Mary leaves of her own power this time, instead of being torn away by a demon, and Dean can’t help but think, as the sound of the door closing echoes through the bunker and his little brother looks his way for comfort, that maybe it’s his fault, this time. His fault for real.

Mary was a fairytale, too good to be true, and too good to stick around for their happy ending. Dean’s wanted his family back since he was four years old, and he’s always managed to be stupid enough to convince himself they might be together for good one day.

Maybe it’s better to not believe at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	26. Three-Hundred Three: Amethyst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More often than not these days, Jessica finds herself worrying about Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Wiccan!Jess. Just because.

More often than not these days, Jessica finds herself worrying about Sam. There’s always been a heavy aura around him, something dark that she doesn’t know how to place. Most days, she isn’t sure she even wants to try. It creeps around his light and tries to strangle it, sometimes, and she’s always anxious that one day, it’s going to succeed- but as of yet, Sam has always managed to fight it off. He’ll smile and hold her hand and kiss her like she’s the only person who’s ever mattered in the world, and the darkness will curl in on itself, backing away and giving him some peace.

It always gets worse at night, though. It always gets worse when he goes to sleep.

He’s quiet, for the most parts, but he’s woken her whimpering and even crying often enough that she knows about his nightmares. He never talks about them, really- he says names in his sleep sometimes; sometimes hers, but mostly his brother’s- but Jessica knows they’re wearing on him when he spends his days with bags heavy under his eyes and a weariness to every smile he manages to show.

There isn’t much she can do- no one she’s ever met has the power to walk into another person’s dreams- but what little there is, she does.

She used to have nightmares, too, when she was little. Not like the ones Sam does, she suspects, but ones that kept her awake and tense and constantly frightened. It was her mother, in the end, who helped her, smiling and touching her cheek before giving her a smooth, purple gemstone.

“Amethyst,” she’d said softly as Jessica ran her fingertips over it in wonder. “It helps with sleeping, sweetheart, and it will protect you from nightmares. Put it under your pillow, and you’ll be able to sleep again soon.”

She’d kissed Jessica’s forehead, then, and left her to get ready for bed. Amethyst under her pillow and all the trust in the world in the woman who gave it to her and Jessica’s nightmares were gone.

She can only hope that it helps Sam just as much.

“Trust me?” she asks him that night, going for a tentative smile when she catches his hand in one of hers. He doesn’t answer right away, but he gives her a curious look and she presses that very same gemstone into his hand, closing his fingers around it gently. “I know it sounds a little silly, but… put this under your pillow tonight?”

Sam blinks, and glances down at their hands, and looks up at her slowly. He wants to ask questions- she can see it in his eyes- but he takes the stone and gives her that little half-smile that made her fall in love with him.

“If you say so,” he says simply, so she laughs and pulls him down for a kiss.

Jessica suspects that he’ll be tearing the library apart trying to figure out why she’s asked him to do this after class tomorrow, but for now- for now, they get ready for bed together, and Sam tucks the little stone under his pillow, and Jessica curls up in his arms to listen to his heartbeat as he settles down.

He doesn’t have one single nightmare, and when he wakes up, he’s the brightest she’s ever seen him, the dark hiding at his very outer edges and cowering in the face of the sun itself.

A little silly, these things might be, but Jessica will cling to them for as long as she can. There’s no harm in a little bit of white magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	27. Three-Hundred Four: Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their sunglasses are clinking together between them and Jensen’s laughing, catching his fingertips between the buttons on Jared’s shirt while they part for breath, LA’s weather keeping them warm in the sun even this late in October. Jensen stops to lick his lips, catching his own reflection in Jared’s lenses as he grins with the taste the other man has left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jared and his dumb sour candies and. Idk, this was after some interview thing they did. Sunglasses. Etc.

Their sunglasses are clinking together between them and Jensen’s laughing, catching his fingertips between the buttons on Jared’s shirt while they part for breath, LA’s weather keeping them warm in the sun even this late in October. Jensen stops to lick his lips, catching his own reflection in Jared’s lenses as he grins with the taste the other man has left behind.

“You always gotta go for the sour ones, huh?”

Jared just smiles back at him, big and happy and still flecked with little sugar crystals. Jensen tastes them on the tip of his tongue, and though he’s never had the same sweet tooth as his best friend, he’s always been partial to the way those flavours tend to cling to Jared’s lips.

“The sour ones are the best kind,” Jared tells him, matter-of-fact and a little too smug, and his hands are big on Jensen’s hips when he hauls him in close again. They’re alone backstage between panels and it’s just one in a million moments that they’ve stolen away together, one in a million heartbeat-spaces that make every day a little more worth living. “No fun if they aren’t sour, Jen.”

Jensen breathes out a laugh at that and he isn’t shy about leaning in close where cameras can’t see them. He feels the creak of leather when he reaches to push Jared’s glasses up off his face, replacing his own reflection with hazel-gold because it’s his favourite sort of sight. “You don’t think so?”

Jensen can watch Jared’s reaction like this, the way his eyes go all soft and heavy when he lets his tongue sneak out, brushing the very tip over the little crystals on Jared’s lips and letting them flavour the kiss, if it’s even structured enough to be called one. He works away in little kitten-licks until he’s gathered every single grain of sugar for himself, completely in love with the way Jared’s lips part for him like a wordless invitation. Once he’s all cleaned up, Jensen doesn’t hesitate to take it.

Jared meets him halfway, laughing into Jensen’s mouth and holding him tight, and he’s the one who lingers next time they part for air. They’ll need to go soon, but there’s no reason not to make the most of every second they have alone like this.

“You’re sweet enough already,” Jared tells him, and Jensen still tastes his grin and can’t help rolling his eyes at the dorkiness of it all.

“You’re an idiot.”

Jared’s smile just gets even bigger, and when Jensen reaches up to fix his glasses- out of time, really; they were needed elsewhere thirty seconds ago- Jared steals another kiss from him, grinning like he’s just caught himself a sugar-stained canary. “So?”

There’s no good answer to that question, so Jensen heaves a dramatic sigh and pulls himself away, if reluctantly. “So I hope you left some of that candy, sugar lips. Sharing is caring, y'know.”

Jared’s laughing himself into a fit when they leave the backstage area, and as it turns out, he did eat all the candy for himself… but Jensen’s more than happy to take his share straight from Jared’s smile when they get home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


End file.
